Post-Punk Outfit Protomartyr Gives Mary’s Underground The Farewell It Deserves

Another cornerstone of Sydney live music has succumbed to the pressures of rising rent prices and declining drinking culture. On Friday June 26, the seven-year-old 450-capacity live music institution on the fringe of Circular Quay, Mary’s Underground, closed its doors.

In its last week, the beloved venue presented two final instalments of its famous late night DJ nights, and on Friday presented a closing performance by British comedian-musician Jim E Brown. Yet at the beginning of this week, on  Thursday June 18, it was Denver post-punk four-piece Protomartyr who were handed the duty of giving Mary’s the ravenously loud send-off it deserved.

“It’s sad to see a place like this go,” the sweat soaked frontman Joe Casey said toward the end of the band’s set, “because everyone’s been very nice to us.” Having staff who genuinely care for artists is a valid reason to be sad for a venue’s closure. And for a band not from Sydney, it can’t be expected for Casey to know the importance of the space. Yet, for myself, and I am sure for many others who filled the low-ceilinged sweaty room tonight, the reasons to miss the stage ranged far beyond this one.

What I always adored most about Mary’s Underground was the intimacy. A stage which rose barely a foot off the ground, and never with a barricade standing between the dancefloor and the musicians. With its decent capacity, several large names would cycle through the venue.

So, to stand inches from these artists as they created their worldclass music was always exhilarating and slightly surreal. As was the case with Protomartyr’s performance.

The band who began in 2012 have up until today consistently produced some of the most interesting and exciting contemporary post punk. Casey’s dry lyrics are renowned for their oblique melancholy, while his bandmates have developed a unique brand of rhythm focused calamity. To have this music blow from Mary’s tiny stage into what soon became a tempestuous ocean of flailing arms and harmonised screams was the epitome of what made this venue so brilliant.

Despite the occasion, the band’s performance felt more like a call to arms than a funeral. As if music played to soldiers before a battle, its warlike rhythms, and ear-splitting guitar – which ranged from consuming reverb to fiery riffs, to sharp breaths of scorching distortion – seemed designed to ignite passion and ferocity in the audience.

Meanwhile, delivering his lyrics like a commander before an army, Casey nursed a beer and stood unfazed by the storm before him. His words were often lost either in the noise of the music, or the unintelligible shouts from the audience. So, as he closed his jaws around his mic and poured himself into his voice, his deep shouted lyrics became simply another rhythmic element within the onslaught of sound.

Walking up from the basement and into Circular Quay for the final time was a sad moment.

My ears were ringing, I was covered in sweat, and I was certain Protomartyr had given the stage a fitting farewell. But with this important venue closing, I could not help wondering if nights like this in Sydney would be possible in the future.

“All art needs nurtured and an opportunity to be celebrated,” the venue said in a statement announcing their closure. “Life would be very boring without it.”